1. Simone #3
Everyone else in the room seems diminished by comparison. They always have. Konstantin is the king of Miami, as his father was, and only my father and Don Genovese could even come close to their power. But now, there’s only him.
I’m not startled by the force of his presence, or by the way the other men in the room shrink back. What startles me is that two other men flank Konstantin as he enters—men who are, undeniably, bosses in their own right. They exude power, just as he does.
I don’t recognize them, and that’s unusual.
I know all the major players in Miami’s underworld—they’ve all had dinner at this mansion, smoked cigars with my father, been spoken about in passing.
I even know a few of the smaller ones, like Tony and Marco.
But these men aren’t small players. All I have to do is look at them to see that.
The first man is older, probably in his sixties, with iron-gray hair and a handsome face despite the lines weathering it.
He carries himself with authority, with the confidence of someone who's used to being obeyed without question. He exudes power without arrogance—he’s clearly settled in his position and knows no one will challenge him. But the second man?—
The second man is pure arrogance and pure sin, all wrapped up in a tailored dark suit that makes the blaze of his copper-brown hair and his green eyes stand out like a flame.
He’s likely in his early thirties, I’d guess, probably ten or so years older than me.
He’s tall, easily over six feet, and the suit that perfectly clings to his figure hints at rippling muscles beneath the cloth.
There’s nothing soft about this man, but there is an elegance to him, a smirking insouciance that oozes arrogance with his every step.
He’s young enough to think he’s invincible, and powerful enough to make it true—and that can be a dangerous combination, in the wrong man.
His jaw is clean-shaven, but I can see the shadow of stubble. His hands are tattooed, as is his throat, speaking to the same blatant aggression that coats the Russians like a fine film. This is a man who is dangerous, and who doesn’t mind if everyone else knows it.
Even as elegant as he appears, I can tell that he’s nothing like the men I’m used to, the polished, sophisticated Italian men that my father entertained as possible matches for me.
This man looks rough around the edges, a primal carnality oozing from him that I’ve never felt from a man before.
He should repel me. I should find him as unattractive as I’ve always found the brutal Russians to be.
Instead, I find myself staring at him, my pulse quickening in a way that has nothing to do with the anxiety that's been coursing through my veins all day.
There's something magnetic about him, something that draws my attention like a moth to flame.
And when his green eyes flick to mine, finding me across the room as he, Konstantin, and Damian enter, I feel a jolt of electricity that makes my knees weak.
He's looking at me with an intensity that makes me feel exposed, vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with my precarious position in the aftermath of my father's death. I’ve never experienced that before, never felt even an ounce of attraction to the men my father has introduced me to.
Never felt as if they were stripping me bare, laying me out for them to feast on with nothing but a look.
That look is possessive, too, in a way that he hasn’t earned. There’s something in it that suggests he's already decided something about me, about my future, and it makes me hate him instantly, makes me want to cross the room and smack that self-absorbed smirk off of his face.
I force myself to look at Konstantin, tearing my gaze away from the copper-haired stranger, though I can still feel his eyes on me, can still feel the heat of his attention like a physical touch.
“Mr. Abramov,” I say with as much pleasant neutrality as I can muster, inclining my head slightly in acknowledgment.
I tamp down my fear. I can’t let him see it.
This man is a predator—a bear, a wolf. If I show fear, he’ll tear me to shreds.
“Thank you for coming. These other gentlemen have come to pay their respects to my father as well.”
"Simone.” He inclines his head slightly as well, his Russian accent lending a formal quality to my name. "I hope you will forgive the intrusion. I know this is a difficult time for you."
The other men in the room have gone silent, watching this exchange with the kind of attention that suggests they understand its importance. Whatever happens next will determine not just my fate, but the future balance of power in Miami's underworld.
I wonder if they’re all thinking, as I am, that Konstantin could easily kill me and take it all for himself. If they’re imagining what they would do in that scenario—in his scenario.
I think any one of them would put a bullet in my head. But I’ve been told more than once that Konstantin isn’t that kind of man. It’s the only hope I have to cling to.
"Please," I say, gesturing toward the seating area. "Make yourselves comfortable." There’s a taut note to my voice that I try to banish, but it’s impossible to rid myself of it completely. Fear colors everything, I’ve learned recently, no matter how hard you try to erase it.
Konstantin nods and moves to one of the leather armchairs, settling into it with the kind of casual authority that makes it clear he's the most powerful man in the room. The older stranger takes a seat nearby, but the younger one—the one with the green eyes and the arrogant smirk—remains standing, his gaze never leaving me. My skin crawls in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant, but I force myself to ignore it.
Handsome or not, this man clearly poses a threat to me too—though I haven’t figured out quite what it is yet.
I only know that I can feel it, wafting from him like a perfume, my every instinct screaming it loudly.
"Allow me to introduce my associates," Konstantin says, his tone formal. "This is Finnegan O'Malley, and his son, Tristan O'Malley. They've come down from Boston to discuss some business opportunities in the wake of recent changes to Miami's landscape."
O'Malley. Irish, then. That explains the rough edges, the difference from the Italian men I'm accustomed to.
The Irish mob operates differently from the Italian families, with different codes, different traditions.
They're known for being more violent, more unpredictable—less so than the Bratva, but more so than the Italians.
Not that the Italian mafia is any less violent. But there’s a polish over it that the Irish and the Bratva don’t bother with.
I sink into an armchair that leaves me mostly facing the room, giving myself as much of an air of authority as I can manage under the circumstances.
They’re here for a reason, and I very much feel that I don’t want to know what it is.
But if Konstantin has brought them here, then it has something to do with my father’s passing.
And from the way the younger O’Malley—Tristan—is looking at me, with that arrogant, possessive smile on his face, I can begin to guess.
I have a feeling that, for some reason that I’m as of yet unaware of, Konstantin has brought Tristan here as my future husband.